


La Danza del Fuego

by vogue91



Category: Skins (UK)
Genre: Ficlet, Introspection, M/M, POV First Person, Rants, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-05 02:50:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14034522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vogue91/pseuds/vogue91
Summary: Love is fire.You’re that fire, the one that almost scorches me, the one making warm all the same nights that without your face crystalized in my thoughts would be just hours spent in the coldness of my untold love.





	La Danza del Fuego

I grab a pencil.

I don’t put it right away on the blank paper staring at me.

I stare at it before, I hold it, I try to channel into it all that agitates me.

To channel that fire inside of me, burning as if it was inside my very own veins.

_Love is fire._

Then I finally start leaving anonymous black marks on the page, sketching features that are horribly familiar to me.

I put him on paper and, at the same time, I put on paper myself.

Tony, Tony, Tony.

_Love is fire._

You’re that fire, the one that almost scorches me, the one making warm all the same nights that without your face crystalized in my thoughts would be just hours spent in the coldness of my untold love.

Paper undergoes a sudden metamorphosis, it becomes master of those empty and inexpressive features belonging to you, giving you a cold and still passionate beauty.

As if you were a statue and not a human being.

A burning statue, like the pencil in my hand, like the paper that almost seem to crush in order to get rid of your face. Like the blood in my veins.

The love I feel is fire, Tony. A fire that I wish could warm me, that it could tear me away from this present, grey and oppressing. But this love, this fire... I don’t know whether it will warm up or will burn my home. If it will come to the point of burning me, starting with the insides and then taking the flesh, taking the silent emotions that come right on time to unsettle me.

Fire. Love is fire. The love that burns the walls, that burns the floors, that burns the ceiling, leaving me alone, exposed, in the cold.

Damn Tony Stonem, who has fun doing this to me.

But still I can’t hate you, not yet.

I can only draw your features of a piece of paper, staining it forever with that mocking expression that belongs to you.

With those eyes, at times shallow and at times deep, depending on who you’re watching.

Those eyes drenched in flames, Tony, when I’m the one looking at you.

Those eyes chained to mine, which are water.

Those eyes, with which you have fun provoking me.

Those eyes, black like the void.

I draw them accurately, in the middle of your sketched face. I draw them, I blend them. As if they were ashes.

Ashes from the fire you leave inside of me, Tony.

Ashes from which my love is born again, Tony.

As a pure flame.


End file.
